We had just emerged from the Metropolitan Museum, blinking in the sunlight, and we felt a sudden urge to drink heavily. And my Brooklyn friends Amanda and Lydia knew just the place. Giino, they assured us, would give us a taste of the real Manhattan, and boy were they right. A long, dark little place with the strangest wall decor I've ever seen: zebras prancing on a field of intense red. And the bar was well-stocked with wonderful New York characters, who patiently indulged us in a little out-of-town gawking.
Yesterday I read in the New Yorker, in a Talk of the Town piece by Gay Talese, that Gino was about to close. Their landlord was raising their rent by $8000 a month. To a Norfolkian, such a statement is akin to hearing that two Martians have landed at the Hardee's on Colonial and are turning sausage biscuits into interstellar fuel pellets. I alerted Lydia, who rushed over to Lexington and 61st, but they were already gone. I had been reading the May 31st New Yorker! I can't keep up with the damn things.